


Kick The Bride Down The Aisle

by Das_verlorene_Kind



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 23:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18648004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind
Summary: Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third is a wealthy Prince of unmatched beauty, yet his pride and ignorance get him in trouble one too many times - and the angry King decides to have his unruly son married to the next person knocking on the castle's door.Who just so happens to be a witty bard with a stunning voice and little patience for the Prince's arrogant attitude...





	Kick The Bride Down The Aisle

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! Welcome to my entry for the fairytale themed Peterick creation challenge!
> 
> We've been kicking around the idea for a fairytale challenge for a while, and I almost instantly knew what fairytale I'd pick - King Thrushbeard. Which, apparently, isn't known at all outside of Germany. But, it is a fairytale that is dear to me, and that left quite the impression. I can still vividly picture the Simsala Grimm episode about it - yet another thing that probably isn'tknown outside of Germany. Oh well. 
> 
> Anyway, go forth and enjoy this re-telling of a classic fairytale.
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for being an awesome beta reader, and for helping to organize these challenges!  
> All artwork done by me.

 

 

 

 

Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, there lived a Prince by the name of Pete who was graced with beauty unmatched to anyone else’s, but he was proud and haughty towards everyone around him.

 

As our tale begins, the King has just returned from voyage, to find his castle in disarray and his people complaining much about the young Prince who was supposed to rule in his father’s absence. With anger, the King summons his son to inquire if the rumors are true.

“My people, they complain to me about my son,” the King says to Pete. “They say you and your friends indulge in wine and beer, then carelessly let your horses trample over the marketplace when you leave the pub, ruining their wares. They say your hunting parties run over their fields, ruining the harvest.”

Pete scoffs at the scolding. “They should be grateful to sacrifice some shards and a bit of corn for their Prince’s entertainment.”

“The feast you held last week, the three days you celebrated, they cost more than all my servants’ monthly earnings combined.” Pete’s father furrows his brows. “Your excessive spending, it hurts the public purse – you know who is filling that, do you not? Not you and your thoughtless friends. How can I remain a respected leader when my own son refuses to be tamed by my hand?”

“You need to spend coin to make coin,” Pete defeats himself. “Am I not allowed to amuse myself and my fellow noblemen?”

“I’ve had it with your immaturity,” his father says with narrowed eyes and, Pete assumes, unpleasant intentions in mind – proven right when his father continues: “That is why I consider it time for you to marry.”

“Marriage?” Pete laughs, half amused, half anxious. “What good would that be?”

“It is time to fulfill your royal duties, and stop bringing nothing but embarrassment and nuisance to my house. Alliances are much needed, and as the eldest, you have an obligation to your family. In a fortnight, we shall host a big feast with all the suitors, so you can judge their character and see who’s most to your liking. I expect you dressed appropriately, and on your best behavior.”

 

A wave of the king’s hand dismisses Pete to his chambers, left to contemplate the upcoming festivities.

  


When day comes, Pete stands in his finest clothes, his body dressed in latest fashion, adorned by precious jewelry, the delightful scent of exotic oils enhancing his presence. Wine and food are served to lift the spirit, court jester and musicians promise much entertainment. Pete would prefer those, alas, he is dragged from his cup and plate to inspect the suitors, lined up for him.

Pete walks among them, a grin on his lips and scorn in his voice.

One was too fat; “the wine-cask” Pete names him. Another was too tall, “long and thin has little in.” The third is too young, “robbed from the cradle.” The fourth is too old, “risen from the grave to offend eyes.” The fifth too red, “a fighting cock.” The sixth is not straight enough, “a green log dried behind the stove.”

The last suitor stands smaller even than Pete, his clothes of a foreign fashion, and a tall hat compensation for what the man lacks in height. The hat obscures half his face, the other half is hidden beneath a beard. Pete does not spare him a second look, although the suitor does politely bow, and unlike the previous, he does not ogle Pete as if he were nothing but a golden statue.

“Allow me to make an observation before I introduce myself. A witty tongue graces you, Prince,” the suitor says, his words barely audible over the clamoring of the crowd. “Surely, you must know to make better use of it then for insults?”

“What the Prince uses his wit for shall be none of your concern,” Pete answers annoyed. “I merely seek to speak the truth. Why, look at you, for example – you have a beard so ill-tamed, it looks like a thrush’s beak! You do not need to introduce yourself to me, for I have figured out your name already: You must be King Thrushbeard!”

Laughter follows Pete’s word, as the noblemen from his court and the fellow suitors spread the mockery, and leave the man now known to everyone as King Thrushbeard with nothing but a bright-red face and a nickname he is unable to escape.

Pete has no concern for the offended suitor, for he can finally turn to wine and dance, and put marriage out of his mind.

  


Next day, Pete wakes up with a heavy head, tongue dry from excessive wine, his clothes in disarray after troubled sleep. When he is summoned by his father, Pete thinks nothing of it.

 

Yet Pete finds the King in great anger, pacing the throne room, and rage is in the loud and harsh words he throws at Pete.

 

“Son, you dare smile at me in these times?” The King shouts, his mighty voice making the nearby guards straighten their back and letting Pete’s grin disappear. “I make an effort to find you the most noble suitors, and you thank me by mocking each and every one of them? Do you know many of them left in anger, with some breaking off our alliances, even going as far as threatening a war? One day, you were to rule this country, yet you cannot be a diplomat even when it comes to a future spouse! Do you ever think of your people? You eat their food, you enjoy the fruits of their labor, their coin keeps you dressed, and yet all you give back is shame and threats of wars? Your family has given you the best education, provided you with every luxury imaginable, tolerated all your moods and this is how you thank us! With mockery and childishness! I have tried my best with you, Peter, and yet I seem to have failed.”

“One evening is not enough to find the person I shall spend the rest of my life with,” Pete tries to argue. “And is it my fault each of them was so flawed?”

The King does not seem to agree, for he narrows his eyes, and declares: “Tomorrow, you shall marry whoever knocks first on the doors of my castle.”

  


Next day, a guard wakes Pete up, and tells him: “You are summoned.”

Pete follows, with a bad feeling in his guts. His father sits on the throne, absent audience and the noblemen usually present; the throne room feels eerily empty. There is only an unknown man kneeling before the steps. A bard, judging by his poor clothes and the fiddle next to him. Pete has made request for a new court jester many times, and yet, given the grave expression marring the King’s face, he suspects that is not the cause he was dragged in for.

 

“Father, what is the meaning of this?”

“This good man is her to entertain us,” the King answers, “hurry, take a seat next to me, let us hear him play.”

As commanded, Pete takes seat next to the King, his mind not yet at ease. The bard gets up, head bowed down, his instrument at hand.

Now, Pete is no stranger to entertainment, he has seen many men and women perform in any way it had pleased him. Yet when this stranger starts to play, the music sounds too good to come from a beggar’s rugged instrument, and the voice that sings loud and clear is more beautiful than the many Pete has heard before.

When the bard is done, he bows, kneels again to await the King’s words.

 

“Delightful,” Pete says as his father remains silent, “fate does bless the beggars sometimes, does it not? Are you seeking engagement at our court?”

“This man was the first to knock on the door of my castle,” the King says now, pointing to the small bundle of clothes cowering on the floor, “and therefore, he shall be the man you’re marrying.”

Pete laughs. At first, hysterically; when the walls around him are the only thing echoing back his mood, he stops, a desperate grin twisting his lips. “Father, you cannot be serious.”

“Are you not done insulting me? Are you calling me a liar, too?” The King throws his cup of wine to the ground, red spilling as the sound of metal hitting stone halls through the throne room. The bard winces, surely fearing the royal rage being redirected to him, but keeps kneeling. Pete does not feel like laughing anymore.

“Father, never would I dare call you a liar,” Pete hastens to assure the King, “you were right to scold me, and surely, you are merely trying to scare me, are you not? Please, I promise, in the future -”

“A promise made too often,” the King interrupts him, “the future is now, Peter, and as a King, I must keep my word. This young man knocked on my doors, and now, you shall marry him.”

“I shall do no such thing!” Hands balled into fists, chin held high, Pete can barely contain his anger. “Father, am I not your son anymore? Am I not the eldest of your children, the heir to a kingdom? You would give me away to a – to _this_?” He gestures towards the bard with his dirty clothes, dusty from the roads traveled by feet rather than horse carriages, hands absent any jewelry, blood free from a blessed drop of noble blue. The bard turns his head to him, a peek of blue eyes looking at Pete from under the busted old hat. They show no fear, which in a twisted way makes Pete even more afraid.

 

“If you do not respect me as a father, then I will not call you my son. If you do not want to fulfill your duties in my court, I can’t afford to keep you around. I have another loyal son, and a lovely daughter, I can spare the child that does not honor his country, his people, his very own family.”

Each word is a golden dagger to Pete’s heart, turning his blood cold and making him shake no longer with anger, but with fear. Words are plucked from his tongue, replaced with the stutter of a fool as his father waves one of his guards closer, and instructs him to fetch the priest.

“Father, I beg of you,” Pete falls to his knees as well, desperate as he pleads to the King, “I’ve learned my lesson, stop this madness at once!”

“Silence,” his Father orders, holding up a hand as if Pete were a disobedient servant, “ah, the priest has arrived – hasten, and get these two men married!”

Any moment now, the King must come to his senses, Pete is sure – he is the Eldest after all, born in good fortune and with intent to rule, destined for greatness, oh surely, his Father cannot want for him to fall from grace like this?

 

The guards drag the bard up to his feet, and two of them position themselves behind Pete, who gets up before he is humiliated any further.

Standing opposite of the stranger now, Pete gets the first full view of the bard. Smaller than him, clean-shaven pale skin and reddened cheeks covered by the dust of the streets, his hair bound together safe for some strands carelessly falling into the blue eyes that keep staring at Pete in the most inappropriate manner. A peasant looking at him without permission, as if Pete were just a mere commoner himself, such rudeness! Such lack of etiquette! A simple feather to adorn the worn-out hat (picked up on the voyage to the castle no doubt, no match for the exquisite pheasant feathers Pete cherishes for himself), the violin seemingly the man’s only possession of any kind of value.

How can his cruel father expect him to marry a man of such low birth, so below Pete?

The sacred words of the priest fill the silence, and fill Pete’s heart with the immediate urge to flee. The two guards end the attempt before he can get started, they hold the struggling, screaming prince as the priest continues the ceremony. When they let go of him, Pete is no longer the prestigious prince, bachelor wanted as a spouse by many the highest noblemen and women around – he is married to a lowly bard.

 

The bard reaches for Pete’s hand, and Pete recoils in disgust. “Do not touch me with those filthy hands of yours,” he spits out. “Enough, this is enough! Father, please, I – just let me go back to my chambers!”

“Yours they are no longer.” The King stands up, red velvet draping around his imposing figure. “I banish you from my castle, Peter – leave, go, get out of my sight!”

Tears fill Pete’s eyes upon the realization that his father is determined in his promises. “Am I supposed to leave empty-handed? What about my belongings? What about my dowry?”

The King scoffs as he glances back over his shoulder. “A commoner has no need for delicate clothes and frivolity. As for the dowry, it shall be a gift to the people, coin to pay back the damage you caused them – whether it be your excessive lust for wine and pleasure, or your carelessness around them.”

“Father!” Pete screams, the guards holding him back from running after the King, “father, you can’t do this! You’re a fool, and you’ll regret this!”

But the King does not turn around, and Pete’s resistance against the guard proves futile; soon after, he finds himself thrown to the streets, the imposing wooden door closed, the castle no longer his home. The guards outside will not let him come closer, so all Pete can do is to start walking in the next-best direction, hands balled into fists and his heavy heart pounding in his ice-cold chest. The bard hurries to keep up with him.

 

“I am sorry,” Pete hears the bard say in a quiet, melodic voice. It is the first time Pete has heard him speak. “I did not intend any of this when I knocked on this very door this morning.”

Pete turns around, all his anger redirected to the one and only person he has left. “You shut your mouth!” With one swift move, he has hauled the bard closer, and has him pressed against a tree lining the worn-out path. “You are the reason I am banned from my own rightful home – I wish for you to have never been born!”

The bard narrows his eyes, not in fear, but in what seems to be annoyance. The lack or respect is driving Pete mad. Do his words hold no meaning and weight to the simpleton?

“You speak without thinking,” the bard has the audacity to suggest, “an unfortunate character trait that surely helped to get you into this trouble.”

“You speak like a fool,” Pete counters, hands clutched into the rough linen shirt of the bard, “and I shall have no more words from you. I do not care if the ghastly old priest had us married, I do not consider you to be a husband equal to me. Go wherever it is a beggar like you goes, I will go the opposite direction and make a life without you.”

“You act without thinking, too.” With surprising strength, the bard pushes Pete away, glares at him. “You have no money, and no longer hold position. No one will protect you from the scorn and anger of your own people, should they find out the once troublesome prince walks among them. With all due respect, your lack of thoughts paired with your loose tongue will get you chased out of every town in no time – if not worse, were you to meet a bandit on the roads. It seems that you are the fool you accused your father of being.”

Angry and ashamed, Pete crosses his arms. “How dare you speak to me like that, not addressing me by title, aiming insult at me! Who are you to make such claims?!”

“I will speak my mind. You are no better than me, Peter.” The bard shoulders his fiddle, adjusts his hat, and straightens his back. “I’ve traveled far and wide, and now, I want to return home. I do not consider myself above you, either, I cannot command you to follow be, bound by vows or not. But be assured that if you come with me, I shall try my best to keep you safe, and provide for you. A roof over your head, and bread to fill your belly – I ask nothing in return but your trust.”

 

With that, the bard turns around, and starts walking. Pete weighs his options, and with horror, finds the man might be right – disinherited and thrown out by his family, with a bad reputation, no coin or anything of value to trade for food and shelter, the world around suddenly turns into his enemy. What the bard offers is more than fair, perhaps friendly even, and Pete knows no one else will make such an offer to him. Even the servants at the castle were paid with more than trust for their services.

So, Pete finds himself hurrying to catch up with the bard. The man remains quiet, eyes on the road. It is Pete who breaks the silence. “You may call me Pete. It is my father who is known as Peter,” he mumbles after a while, cheeks burning in shame at the thought that a lowly bard addresses him by name instead of title. Since Pete has been stripped of rank and position though, he has nothing else to offer.

“Pete, then,” the bard says with a nod and a faint smile, “my name is Patrick.”

  


They wander for hours upon hours, with neither the luxury of a horse nor the pleasure of wine and sweets to delight the tongue. When Pete asks for a drink, Patrick guides them to a nearby river. When Pete asks for food, he is given a slice of bread, hard already. Yet his dry mouth and empty stomach defeat his pride in shameful manner; Pete drinks the water that the bard fetches from the river, on all fours and further dirtying his clothes, and he eats the bread given to him, even though it is their last ration.

As they walk, they pass the border, venture into territory unknown to Pete. In the distance, he spots golden fields, glimmering in the sunlight, and plentiful cattle, grazing on lush green meadows. “Such rich and plentiful harvests, and how much cattle these lands can feed!” Pete remarks in awe. “Say, to whom do they belong?”

“This land belongs to the man I believe you named King Thrushbeard,” Patrick answers. “Is it true, he was one of your suitors? If you had taken him, this land would belong to you.”

“Ah, unhappy man that I am, if I had but taken King Thrushbeard!” Anger and frustration give way to these words, and although Pete does feel embarrassed that he is sharing his thoughts with the bard in such honest manner, he cannot take them back.

Next, they pass a town, flourishing in wealth, where Patrick gathers coins from the crowd of the street by entertaining them with music. “Your talent, it is wasted on the commoners,” Pete scoffs afterwards while they wander the marketplace, “your voice and play is worthy to be heard by a King’s ear.”

“What a haughty man you are!” Patrick turns to him with a frown on his dirty face. “Not being of noble birth makes you no less deserving of singing and dancing than anyone else. Music warms the heart and lifts the spirit of everyone. And it is those commoner’s coin that buys you a meal, is it not?”

With a huff, Pete turns away from him, although he does accept the food Patrick offers him. “Can we not stay here for the night?” Pete asks as they approach the town’s gate.

“It would be a waste of money,” Patrick replies, “the weather is warm, no rain to wet us, and the grasses’ soft bed is for free.”

“To whom does this town belong?” Pete asks as they leave it behind.

“This town belongs to King Thrushbeard,” Patrick answers. “If you had taken him, this land would belong to you.”

They lay down in the grass, mud and dirt caking skin and clothes, and in utter misery, Pete sighs: “Ah, unhappy man that I am, if I had but taken King Thrushbeard!”

The bard does not answer him, just turns away to seek rest, while Pete gazes upon the stars, his legs sore, his heart heavy, and his thoughts dark. This is not how he dreamed his wedding night to be.

 

Next day, they continue their travel by feet, passing through a large forest with beautiful meadows and surely, plenty of hunting grounds.

“To whom does all this forest belong?” Pete asks as they walk through it, the trees a welcome source of shadow in the afternoon heat.

“This forest belongs to King Thrushbeard,” Patrick answers once more. “If you had taken him, this land would belong to you.”

“I did not know his land extended so far and wide!”

“His land extends even further, up to the next town where his castle stands,” Patrick explains. “It may not be as big as yours, but it provides plenty, and the people call him a fair and clever ruler.”

Pete sighs heavily. “Ah, unhappy man that I am, if I had but taken King Thrushbeard!”

“It does not please me,” the bard says with a hurt voice, “to hear you always wishing for another husband; am I not good enough for you?”

These words cause but annoyance in Pete. “Of course you are not! For you lack title and wealth the king or any of my other suitors have.”

Patrick has the audacity to laugh at his anger. “You had both once, and yet, you ended up with a bard for a husband. My kindness and skills make me a welcome guest in the nearby towns. My fiddle amuses the crowd, and my voice enchants them enough to part with their hard-earned money. Stripped of wealth and title, what do _you_ have to offer?”

No answer comes to Pete’s mind.

  


At last they arrive at a little hut. “Oh goodness!” Pete can’t help but exclaim at the sight, so stark a contrast to the beautiful town and landscape they passed. “What a small house; to whom does this miserable, mean hovel belong?”

“That is my house and yours.”

Pete has to stoop in order to go in at the low door. The inside looks no better than the outside. He can hear the cawing of the chicken outside, kept in the small back porch. “Where are the servants?”

“What servants?” Patrick answers, bemused, “what you want done, you must do yourself. For now, go make a fire, and set on water to cook, for you must be as hungry as I am. I will see after the chicken.”

“My horses’ stable was more luxurious than this hut,” Pete mumbles, to which Patrick only shrugs.

“Your servants, did they have more than we have here?”

“Most did not,” Pete admits with newfound shame enraging him. “What would they need the room for if they are occupied with serving me all day? It would be a waste of resources.”

“Then try their way of living for yourself, and see if fate rewarded you for such greed.”

 

But Pete knows nothing about lighting fires or cooking, and the bard has to lend a hand himself to get anything fairly done. When they finish their scanty meal, Pete expresses wish for a bath to rid himself of the grime and dirt from traveling; Patrick hands him a ragged cloth, and guides him to the stream behind the hut. The water, though clear, is ice-cold, and Pete shivers as he scrubs his naked body as clean as he can.

 

Back in their hut, Pete yearns for a bed, for a soft mattress and warm blankets, but all they have is some hay on the floor as their bedding. It prickles the skin and does not grant the rest Pete so desires, but it is better than sleeping on the very floor. Shortly after, Patrick sits down next to him, scrubbed clean as well. His skin is pale, his hair is copper, his eyes as blue as the sky, his lips the petals of a rose; now that Pete is taking a closer look, Patrick is not too bad for a peasant.

“Well-fed you are for a beggar,” Pete observes with surprise.

“Before I knocked on your door, I used to serve in a nobleman’s castle,” Patrick explains, “they had plenty of food for me as long as I entertained them. But they grew bored of me, so I had to leave.”

Pete shakes his head. “What fools they are to grow tired of your lovely play, your golden voice!”

“Thank you,” the bard says with a small laugh. “Now, I know you did not want to marry me, and we barely know each other… I would not force you to lay with me, ever. One word, and I shall make my bed on the other end of the room.”

“You better not!” Pete exclaims. “I’ve lost enough already, you wouldn’t rob me of my wedding night, would you?”

The bard smiles. “No, I would not. Have you – have you been with men before, Pete?”

“Of course I have.” Pete raises his chin in pride. “Men or women, pleasure knows no gender for me. You have not brought home a blushing virgin for a bride.”

“And I am afraid you have no untouched husband wed to you either,” Patrick says as he goes through the bag next to his clothes, until he retrieves a small container. “Ah, I found it – rose-scented oil, given to me as a favor from the nobleman I worked for. As a Prince, you must have been familiar with this?”

“I have used similar before.” Pete nods, adds: “Though I never wasted it on a servant.”

With shock widening his pretty eyes, Patrick exclaims: “You truly are a haughty and thoughtless man.”

“Do not insult me like this!” Pete says back. “They never complained!”

“Of course they did not! Are you that dense?” Patrick looks at him in disbelief. “What servant would dare to speak mind to a Prince so ruthless? They were afraid to lose position or perhaps their lives, even.”

“Their lives? Never! I merely sought entertainment, I am not that cruel, never! I would not have – why must you think of me that way?”

Patrick’s expression softens, and he says: “What can I think of you, then? I believe you are more than a spoiled Prince, so come, show me I am right.”

 

Oh, Pete intends to prove him right. He pulls Patrick to him, has him laying beneath him on the hay now. Indeed the bard is a delight to gaze at, with porcelain skin, face smooth and adorned by a burning blush as Pete kisses it.

“The men and women before me,” Patrick mumbles, “did you love any of them?”

“I did not. For I was their Prince,” Pete answers, “they had to love _me_.”

“How did you please the others?” Patrick gasps, “did you use your hands? Your tongue?”

“I did not. For I was their Prince,” Pete answers, “they had to please _me_.”

 

“You are an even bigger fool than I thought,” Patrick laughs, and he pushes Pete off of him, then straddles his lap. “We are equal, and I shall not be treated with such egotistical intentions by you. Your fingers, dip them into the oil, so you can open me up. But go slow, I do not care for haste or pain.”

Pete does as told, although his own desire burning between his legs begs to be attended. It only grows when Pete feels the heat of another body, the tight promise of satisfaction around his fingers.

“You do well,” Patrick says breathlessly, “now, crook your fingers, and try find that sweet spot of pleasure inside of me...”

Pete does as told, although he is not sure what the bard is talking about. Until he must have found it, because Patrick lets out a loud moan, urges him to repeat the movement, all eager delight and lustful sighs as Pete does.

“What is the meaning of this?” Pete asks confused. “My dick has not entered your body, yet you seem so pleased?”

“You have much to learn,” Patrick answers with a low chuckle. “Fetch me the oil, and I shall slick you up.”

The bard’s hands rub the rose-scented oil onto Pete’s dick with swift, skillful movement; it feels much better than when Pete lays hand on himself on a rare lonely night.

“How does a beggar seek pleasure? Will you get on all fours for me?”

“No,” Patrick says, “I would like to be eye to eye with you. I want you to see me as a man of your equal, one you intend to give pleasure, instead of merely a convenient opportunity for you to take it without giving back.”

“A bold man you are, to talk like that all the time,” Pete grumbles, “do not tell me your tongue never gets you into trouble.”

Patrick laughs. “I know how to use mine – for more than one purpose...”

 

The meaning of these words elude Pete, for he has no time to think of them as Patrick slowly takes him in. Beggar or noblemen, both feel alike in pleasure, Pete must admit to himself as he joins Patrick for fervent moans and hungry kisses. Each time their lips meet, it tastes of the sweetest honey, each time Patrick rolls his hips, Pete believes himself to be in Paradise already.

“Your hands,” Patrick gasps between two kisses, “make use of them, silly Prince!”

One of Pete’s hands grabs into the soft flesh of Patrick’s arse, the other slides between their bodies, find Patrick hard and leaking. Pete is not as skillful as the bard, yet he does his best to please him as wanted, hand stroking cock and lips delivering deep kisses.

It works, for Patrick cries out as he spills white over Pete’s eager hand, tightens around Pete’s own dick in the most marvelous manner. The moment of shared pleasure is enough to let Pete come as well, grants him blissful moments of utter joy and total serenity.

 

The moments do not last, for Pete comes back to his senses, finds himself cold and sweaty and with nothing but a rag and water from the river, fetched in a cracked bowl, to clean himself up.

“I gave you what you desired,” Patrick says softly, “I do not know if you wish for my company for the whole night. One word, and I shall make my bed on the other end of the room.”

“I never kept company in my bed,” Pete answers him, “for no one was worthy to sleep next to the Prince.”

“How lonely your arrogance must have made you!” Patrick takes Pete’s hand in his own. “You might find the comfort of another person with you pleasing enough to soften your harsh heart.”

“I did as I was told,” Pete explains, “for my father did not like to see me in company he deemed unfitting. He wanted my affections to be saved only for men and women he saw of political gain.”

“He no longer rules over you. You are free to do as you wish.”

“Then I wish to try the ways of the peasants,” Pete answers him, “for you are warm and kind, and I enjoyed holding you in my arms – I would like to do that again.”

Together they lie on the hay, in each other’s embrace, and the former Prince begins to think that the bard might not be the fool he thought him to be.

  


Sleep ends all too soon, as the bard wakes Pete up at sunrise, despite all protests.

“The day has started,” merciless Patrick tells him, “we must feed the animals, tend to the house, prepare our food, and many other tasks await.”

Already proven himself to be without skill in the kitchen, Pete is send to feed the chickens. Their beaks and claws and loud chatter displeases Pete, yet he throws them some corn before hastening inside again, joining Patrick for a sparse breakfast.

“There are two people to feed now,” Patrick says, “tell me, Pete, what useful skill do you have to offer?”

 

The bard hands him some willows, and shows Pete how to weave; but when Pete tries it, the tough willows wound his delicate hands.

“I see that this will not do,” Patrick says, “you had better spin, perhaps you can do that better.”

 

Pete sits down and tries to spin, but the hard thread soon cut his clumsy fingers so that blood runs down.

“I see, you are fit for no sort of work,” Patrick observes with a sigh, “I have made a bad bargain with you!”

 

“There must be something else I can do!” Pete cries out in embarrassment.

“You have a pretty face and quick wits,” Patrick says, “I have pots and earthenware to be sold. You shall sit in the market-place and sell the ware.”

Alas, Pete thinks, if any of the people from his father’s kingdom come to the market and see him sitting there, selling, how will they mock him?

But it is of no use, he has to yield unless he chooses for both of them to starve.

 

For the first time Pete succeeds well, as Patrick’s words proved to be true: People are glad to buy his wares because Pete is quick with his tongue, loud voice praising the wares, and he is easy on the eye with his good looks and charming smile. Patrick joins him on the market-place at noon, providing Pete with food and the masses with the joy of his singing. No one recognizes him as a former Prince from a foreign kingdom, so no mockery and scorn has to be endured, and Pete finds a certain pride in his skills as a salesman. If only he had tried to work with such enthusiasm back when he was a Prince, perhaps his father would have seen him fit for the throne still!

“Well done,” Patrick praises him when Pete returns from market-place. “I take back the words I spoke so carelessly. Tomorrow, we will do the same.”

 

Such is their life for the coming days – They rise early, tend to the household chores, and Pete grows accustomed to the chicken in the yard, finds their presence soothing and their eggs to be the tastiest he’s ever had. And Pete finds great success in selling the wares, while Patrick always joins him at noon for a shared meal and to perform for the crowd. His skillful play and beautiful voice are always a welcome break for Pete, who cannot help but marvel at his husband’s musical skills. At night, they lie together, sometimes for pleasure, sometimes merely for sleep after an exhausting day. Pete does grow fond of their nightly pleasures, although he finds himself to be shamefully ignorant compared to his husband’s expertise. Pete does grow fond of sharing the bed with the bard, although it lacks the luxury of satin and down. Perhaps he can make a life with this bard?

 

Next day, Pete sits down with the crockery, ready to sell. But suddenly the crowd flees as a hussar on his horse rides through the market-place. The man rides right amongst the pots, carelessly trampling over the delicate crockery until nothing but shards are left, not caring for Pete’s protests.

An angry and helpless Pete begins to weep upon seeing his source of income ruined. “Alas! What will my husband say!”

Said husband arrives at noon, as he always does, to find Pete weeping amidst the ruins of the earthenware. Pete tells him of the misfortune, and Patrick sighs. “Not too long ago, it was you on that horse,” Patrick says, “tell me, do you like it now that you are the poor man on the market-place? Do you still think you did right?”

“I do not!” Pete cries out. “I had no concern when I was a Prince, I was spoiled and careless. Having seen it now, I realize the unfairness! Oh, had I but sooner realized, perhaps I would have stayed a Prince.”

“It is no use to ponder over the past, for it cannot be changed. Prince or not, you can be a good man now, and for all the future.” Patrick kisses Pete’s quivering lip and takes his hands, until Pete has calmed down.

 

After Patrick delights the crowd with his usual singing and playing, they make their way home early. Food is sparse now that so much coin has been lost thanks to the horseman, and yet Pete saves part of his bread to feed the chicken with, for he can no longer stand the thought of the innocent animals suffering. Patrick smiles sweetly at the sight, and then he takes Pete to bed to show off once more what further entertainment besides songs his mouth has to offer. It has Pete writhing and crying from pleasure, and after Pete has been satisfied, for the first time, he feels the burning wish to give the same pleasure back to the bard. Pete’s mouth and tongue are not as skilled as Patrick’s, yet they see him well-satisfied eventually. Although it was not him who had been served, Pete does feel a weird sense of joy when he sees Patrick smiling and being happy.

“What shall I do now to earn money?” Pete asks as he lays in Patrick’s arms. “I do not want to be a burden to the people close to me again.”

“Silly Pete! You are a human, not a burden.” Patrick kisses him as if to underline the words. “I am sorry that I do not have to offer the wealth and luxuries you were used to.”

“No, it is I who is sorry,” Pete answers him, “for had I been a better Prince, perhaps my father would take me back, and we could both live in the castle again. Regardless of your low birth, I feel that you might have made a great advisor to me – with your help, we would have ruled the country fair and just. Alas, after all this time, the King has not so much as send a messenger to make sure of my well-being.”

“Worry not about these matters,” Patrick soothes him. “And tomorrow, I shall go to our King’s castle and inquire if they have work for you.”

 

 

 

 

 

Indeed, Patrick succeeds in his request, and from then on, Pete works as as a kitchen-boy. The word is hard and tiresome, yet not only does it help pay for their living, the leavings also feed them both as well as their chicken in the yard, and not a day passes by where anyone has to go to bed with an empty stomach. Often, Pete is lucky enough to bring home the leavings of food that otherwise might have been unattainable for them – the finest meat and fish, sugar-decorated sweets, exotic fruits. He keeps the jars fastened to the pockets of his pants and waistcoat, happy to fill them up and bring them home.

“Your King is just,” Pete says one day as they are having supper together, “for my father would have rather thrown the food into the pigs’ trough than to let our servants take their share.”

“He rules with a cruel hand sometimes,” Patrick answers him, “and then he was surprised his son took the wrong lessons from it!”

Together, they tend to the chickens afterwards, watch as they feast on the corn; one of them has grown fond of Pete, so much that Pete is allowed to hold it and pet it. When Pete was a Prince, he saw animals as little more than commodities, be it the livestock or the noble horses. Now, he weeps at the thought of how carelessly he treated the hunting dogs and how his whip used to strike onto his horse’s back until it drew blood.

 

Back in their hut, they get ready for the night, clothes folded on the floor as they wash themselves with water fetched from the stream.

“I heard the King is getting married soon,” Pete says, “all the maids are gossiping about it.”

“They speak the truth,” Patrick answers, “I myself will be present.”

“Will you sing for the King?” Pete asks him.

“I will do more than that,” Patrick answers with a small laugh, “but I cannot tell you yet. Say, are you jealous of him? Or perhaps, do you find yourself ever wishing to have married someone else? A noble suitor, or even one of the maids, as she could at least bear you children?”

“Silly Patrick! Jealousy looks most unbecoming on you.” Pete takes the bard’s hand, and kisses it. “Looking back, I now realize I never wanted to marry for I knew my spouse would have been a stranger who saw me only with intent to political gain, and perhaps as a pretty flower to adorn their court. I do not think I would have has as much luck with any of them as I have had with you...” He gently motions Patrick to lay down on their makeshift bed. “None of them would have married me now that I am but a peasant, and none of them would have treated me with both the honesty, yet also patience and kindness you showed me. Remember when you asked me if I had loved any of the men or women I laid with, and I denied? Alas, I must change my answer, for there is one I fell in love with, and it is the man I am looking at right now. For his heart, I would trade in my kingdom again.”

“That is not necessary,” Patrick answers softly, “for my heart is yours already.”

“I no longer call a kingdom my own,” Pete says, “all I can offer in return is my own heart.”

The brightness of Patrick’s smile makes the sun itself blush. “Oh, Pete – to me, that is worth more than anything else on this world.”

 

When they kiss, it feels like a piece of Paradise has come to Earth, for Patrick’s lips are so beautiful, his blue eyes so full of love, his naked, blushing body so yearning for desire. Pete takes his time, for he intends to map out every inch of Patrick’s body with his tongue and hands, wants to press a kiss to every bit of soft pale skin, wishes caress every bit of beloved Patrick’s body. The rewards are plenty of lustful moans from Patrick, who writhes under Pete’s touch, bucks his hips in search for more when Pete’s mouth finds his hardening dick. Pete hears a soft “oh” from Patrick when he drags tongue over the shaft, right down between Patrick’s spread legs, teasing his hole.

“What are you doing?” Patrick gasps, though not without curiosity.

“Let me try?” Pete asks, and a nod grants him permission to drag his tongue over Patrick’s arse again, and again, and again, until it gets him wet and relaxed enough for Pete to slide in two fingers, work Patrick open; and it does not take long for Pete to find that magic place of pleasure inside of him again that never fails to render Patrick wanton and wanting.

“Oh, enough!” Patrick cries out. “Get the oil, and hasten to prepare us both properly.”

Pete does as he is told, fingers now more skilled in bringing Patrick pleasure, and then he sits between Patrick’s legs, slides himself in slowly.

“You feel but heavenly,” Pete whispers, “and you are a feast for my eyes, ears, and every other sense.”

“I have guided you well,” Patrick answers him, “and now, your pleasant lips and tongue, your gentle hands and cock, your precious, precious heart – never can I desire anyone but yours...”

“Never will you have to, for they shall be yours alone.” Pete bows down to kiss him, tastes sweet love and adoration on Patrick’s pink lips, feels Patrick’s pulse under his fingers. He starts to move, Patrick soon to join him as they work out a rhythm, lose themselves in perfect marital bliss and pleasure. Pete’s hand wanders between their bodies to Patrick’s hard, hot dick, soon joined by Patrick’s own slender fingers. Together, they stroke him until Patrick is nothing but moans and whimpers as he falls apart under tender touches, tightens around Pete’s own dick until Pete too is nothing but moans and whimpers as he soon follows to climax.

“Let me,” Pete proposes as Patrick reaches for the bowl of water, “I want to look at you a little longer.” The bard blushes, but stretches out on the hay and lets Pete clean them up both. As always, they embrace each other afterwards, shared body heat keeping them warm under the sparse blanket, and their shared love burning in their hearts.

  


Soon, it is the day of the King’s wedding. Pete is but a low kitchen boy, so he watches the crowd enter the ballroom from afar, marveling at the wonderful clothes and the delicious food prepared for the banquet. The jars he keeps in his trousers are already filled with some of the food, for Pete is sure no one will miss the few scraps he took, and he thinks Patrick is only deserving to taste such a scrumptious meal, too.

Last, the King enters, clothed in velvet and silk, and even from afar, while he cannot tell the face of the man, Pete recognizes the clothes and hat – it is no one but King Thrushbeard, the suitor he once scorned and branded with the unfortunate nickname. One of the King’s guards makes his way to Pete, and asks: “Are you Peter? The King demands a dance with you.”

With fear and shame, Pete tries to flee, but his struggles are to no avail, and the guard drags him into the hall; but in the process the jars of food come loose and fall from his pockets, the soup runs out, and the scraps are scattered all about. And when the people take notice, general laughter and derision arises and Pete wishes he was a thousand fathoms below the ground. It was himself not too long ago that used to point fingers and laugh, mock people for their misfortune, and he feels most ashamed for these past mistakes for he finds it to be no longer amusing at all.

Pete feels tears running down his cheeks, and he springs up and tries to flee, but on the stairs the guard catches him again and brings him back to the ballroom, where Pete falls to his knees.

 

“What is the meaning of this?” The imposing voice of the guard inquires. A crowd gathers behind him, and Pete thinks King Trushbeard might be among them, but he does not dare to turn around and face the man himself. “Are you not Peter, the Prince from the nearby kingdom? I am told you are to marry my King.”

“I am no longer Prince,” Pete answers, “and I am married already, to the bard named Patrick. He is the only man I love, and the first to give me his heart, and I shall not trade it neither for a kingdom, nor the world itself. Tell your King he must find another one to marry.”

“You must be mad,” the guard says with anger, “is that the answer you want to give?”

“I am married already,” Pete repeats, loud enough for the crowd to hear, “he is the only man I love, and the first to give me his heart, and I shall not trade it neither for a kingdom, nor the world itself. Tell your King he must find another one to marry.”

 

“Why do you not tell the King himself?” A familiar voice interrupts. “He will be pleased by your brave and honest words.”

 

When Pete turns around, he finds none other than Patrick himself among the crowd, dressed in silk and velvet, with familiar clothes and hat.

 

“Patrick! What is the meaning of this?” Pete asks in confusion.

 

“Do you not recognize me? You call me Patrick now, but once you named me King Thrushbeard. Your words stung me, yet I did not think you were nothing but the spoiled, pretty Prince everyone deemed you to be. When I heard your angry father was to marry you off to the next best person knocking on your door, I decided to take opportunity and teach you a lesson. I shaved my beard, and pretended to be a poor bard. You’ve seen life from a different perspective now, you’ve seen the errors of your ways, and become a better person for it, and I have fallen deeply in love with you since.” Patrick reaches out a hand to Pete, and helps him to get up. “Your words, they mean the world to me. And yet, I must tell you that since the bard I pretended to be is but a ghost I made up, you are not legally bound to me or anyone else. If you wish to, I shall cancel the feast, and you can live as a fellow nobleman in my country, wealth and title restored, and marry whomever else you desire.”

“You must not have listened to me,” Pete answers him with a smile, “you are the only man I love, and the first to give me his heart, and I shall not trade it neither for a kingdom, nor the world itself. There is no one else I will marry but you – for a second time, and more, if I must!”

With that, Pete kisses Patrick, and Patrick kisses him back with all of his love.

 

The very next day, Pete enters the ballroom with his King Thrushbeard at his side, dressed in the most splendid clothing, to get married in front of the whole court. It is now that Patrick gets the dance he requested the past day, and the two of them dance until the dawn of the night, eyes only for each other, with the dawn of a bright future on the horizon.

 

And they lived happily ever after.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> There was gonna be a big pretentious rant about how fairytales in German don't end with "they lived happily ever after" but rather with "if they haven't died, they are still alive today" and a whole bunch of other snobby stuff, but luckily for you, I am skipping all that. After all, this is one of the rare sort of happy fairytales.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story, and I would love to hear your thoughts! Leave me a little comment? :)  
> And don't forget to check out the other amazing entries in this collection!


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